


I Will Try (to Fix You)

by Stitch



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Doctors, M/M, Mafia AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 20:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15104378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stitch/pseuds/Stitch
Summary: The love of Nicklas Backstrom's life literally fell out of the sky. And oh God, he looked really hurt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seaqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaqueen/gifts).



The love of Nicky's life fell out of the sky. And oh god, he looked really hurt. 

From what Nicky could tell he had actually fallen from one of the balconies overlooking the street, and of course it had to be him, the doctor, to witness it. 

"Excuse me?" Nicky said, approaching the man slowly, as if he was going to explode. 

The man groaned. The fall must not have hurt him that bad- he was at least conscious- but he didn't look well by any means. 

"Sir?" Nicky tried again. The man was flat on his back but attempted to turn his body toward his voice. "Oh God, don't move." It was very obvious that he was hurt in some way with how he was laboring on his side. He cursed himself for not noticing it sooner- his coat had fallen open in his movement, and blood stained his dress shirt from a gruesome stab wound. 

" 'm fine," the man said. Nicky urged himself closer. 

"You definitely look it," Nicky kneeled down by him. "Do you have a name?" 

"Alex," he said. 

"Okay," Nicky took off Alex's coat, "You're talking, you're recalling information, that's good. You're going to be okay, Alex." Nicky laid him down flat on his coat then went to work assessing the wound. He carefully unbuttoned and peeled the dress shirt away his body. It was a deep cut into his side, thankfully away from any major organs. Blood loss was the biggest problem right now. "Do you have anybody I can call in an emergency, Alex?" 

"Holtby," he croaked, "why do you keep saying my name?"

"Am I? I'm sorry," he forced a smile. "A nervous tick, I think. I always call my patients by their names to calm them down. What's the number?" 

Alex rattled off the numbers and Nicky quickly dialed. The man picked up after the second ring. 

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," he said. Nicky was surprised at first by such an upfront greeting. 

"Mr. Holtby, Alex is here at-" he looked around for a landmark, "He's in front of the Columbia Lofts building, and it's an emergency-" Nicky didn't even get to finish his sentence before he hung up. 

He turned back to his patient. "Alright, your friend is on his way, and once he gets here we're going to get you to a hospital." 

"No hospital," he squawked, "Can't go to hospital," 

"I think they'll let you in dressed like this." Nicky quipped. "I'm going to give you first aid now, that'll hold you until the emergency room." 

"Told you, not going to hospital." 

"I know it's uncomfortable, Alex, but you'll only get better if you-" 

"You'll fix me okay, you're doctor right?" 

"Well, yeah, but-" 

"Fix me." 

A black Cadillac pulled up beside them. A man in an extremely flattering suit and hat hurriedly got out and hustled around the front of the car, brandishing a pistol. "Hey!" He yelled, "What the hell did you do to Alex, you fuck?!" 

Nicky instinctively put his hands up. "Sir, Alex has been stabbed and fell from an unknown height," he tried his best to explain calmly, but he was sure his fear showed on his face. "I'm a doctor, but he needs to get to a hospital right away." 

"He's not going to a hospital." Holtby said, "Too many people." 

"I can assure you he'll have the best care possible. He'll have private room." 

"And why should I trust you?" 

"Because..." Nicky looked at the man bleeding out on the sidewalk for a moment, then bore his gaze into Holtby's. "Because if I was going to hurt Alex, I would've done it already. I would've left him helpless here, and he would have died, alone. Now, are you going to continue to impede his care, or are you going to let me do my job?" 

Holtby looked at Nicky for a long moment. The doctor felt like he was in a staring contest with a James Bond villain, and losing. Finally, Holtby sighed and put the pistol back in its holster. "Fine. Do what you need to do. But we're still not going to a hospital." 

Nicky groaned. "Fine, whatever, just help me move him to a safer location. Concrete isn't the best thing to lay on when you're dying." 

Alex coughed under him. "I'm not dying." 

Nicky quickly ripped off pieces of Alex's shirt and tied a tourniquet. "I don't have gauze on me," he explained, "But this will hold until I get somewhere with tools." 

He and Holtby carefully put him in the backseat of the car. Nicky was thankful that whoever these guys were, they were excessive enough to buy large cars. He sat squished between Alex and the front seats, putting pressure on the makeshift bandage as best he could. 

"Where to?" Holtby asked when he was sure that his passengers were secure. 

Nicky led them to his house outside of the city. When they pulled up in the driveway, he quickly jumped out of the car and rushed into the house. He frantically searched for things he might need- a tarp, gauze, rubbing alcohol, and sutures. He was glad that Andre had left his practice materials at his house from when he was crashing there. 

He laid out all the materials in his living room floor and made sure it was suitable enough for what he was about to do. 

"No, I don't need any help, I'm fine," Holtby said as he entered the house, Alex in his arms bridal style. 

"Sorry, sorry," Nicky said. He gestured over to the area and helped him set his patient gently on the floor. After a second, Nicky turned around and grabbed a pillow from his couch and put it under Alex's head. "Here's the problem. I don't have anything to numb the pain." 

"I don't need it," Alex groaned, "Just hurry up." 

Nicky looked at Holtby, who was standing over the two of them with his arms crossed. He hoped his look said _He can't be serious_ , but it probably conveyed the nausea-inducing panic he felt in his gut. Holtby looked Alex up and down, as if assessing the state of his friend himself for the first time. "Do it," he said. "You got any alcohol in here?" 

"Uh, maybe." Nicky gestured toward the kitchen. He pulled his latex gloves on and took a deep breath. Holtby left the room, presumably in search of booze, and Nicky looked Alex in the eyes. 

"I'm not going to lie, this will probably hurt. But please try not to move. I'll give you painkillers after." Alex nodded. With that affirmation, Nicky began his work. 

It took him all of an hour to clean, stitch, and dress the wound. When he was done, he sat back on his haunches with a sigh. 

"Okay. That's it." he said. Alex looked down at his injury, then nodded. "Good job!" he said, more enthusiastic than he thought was possible from someone who had lost that much blood. "Hey Holtby, come look at this!" 

Holtby came back in the room, obviously having found where Nicky keeps his liquor. He handed Nicky a glass of what he assumed was whiskey, and passed an unopened bottle of vodka to Alex. 

"Hey, good work." Holtby said between sips. Nicky wondered where his own drink came from, but he decided not to mention it. 

"I'm injured, I can't open this." Alex mumbled. Nicky took it from him. 

"That's good, because you shouldn't drink right now anyway. I'm going to give you some pretty heavy medication to help the healing process. You should be up and about in the next few days if you follow my instructions and don't do anything to make the stitches come out." 

Alex slowly sat up. "I'm fine, Russian machine never breaks." Nicky rolled his eyes. 

All at once, a wave of fatigue hit him. He felt the immediate need to lie down, or maybe just get away from this mentally taxing situation that was currently in his living room. He got to his feet. "Do whatever you want, I'm not your mom," he said on his way to his bedroom. 

He heard footsteps following behind him, then was forcibly turned around to face Holtby. 

"Hey," he said, "Thanks for all your help. I hope we understand each other on this," he gestured between the two of them. 

Nicky blinked. "I don't get what you mean." 

Holtby laughed under his breath. "You know who you helped today, don't you?" 

Nicky shook his head. 

"Good. Then if people come around and ask if you have anything to do with Alex Ovechkin, you'll tell them no, right?" 

Nicky searched the other man's eyes. He nodded slowly. 

Holtby smiled, too warm of a smile for a conversation that seemed so threatening. "That's great. You go and rest now, I'll take Ovi and we'll be out of here by the time you wake up." He turned on the heel of his expensive looking shoes and drifted back down the hall. 

Nicky had shut the door and sat down on his bed before he let his jaw drop. 

_What the hell just happened?_


	2. Chapter 2

Nicky definitely didn't feel like sleeping now. Alex Ovechkin? As in the leader of the Washington Mafia? Just the thought of it made his skin crawl. 

That guy had probably killed people. Robbed people. Tortured people. And Nicky let him in his home! He saved him from bleeding out! 

He started to pace. It's not like saving a person's life is a bad thing. It's his job. He's supposed to help anyone. But what if the guy he helped goes off and hurts someone else? Would Nicky be responsible? 

Would people find out that he helped him? What would happen? Would he lose his job? Would- 

Nicky shook his head. He had to get a grip. He did a good thing. It may not have been for the best person, but it didn't matter. That person is alive today because he did something. 

He had wandered aimlessly to stand in front of the mirror in his connected bathroom. He ran his fingers through his hair and splashed some water on his face. 

He couldn't help but think of Andre as he stared at his reflection. Andre had lived with him for a few months while he was studying to be a surgeon. He had never seen anybody as passionate about helping people as that kid was. He believed that if you learn enough about the body, all of its organs and its muscles and its bones, you could control it and get it to do what you wanted. That was the absolute key to curing any ailment. 

"Seems like an honorable enough pursuit," Nicky had told him that day. He didn't think he heard him. Andre always had his nose in some textbook or medical journal. 

"It's not about being honorable," he had answered surprisingly, "It's about this knowledge being a necessity." 

"Alright," Nicky perched his head on his hands as he leaned across the table in front of his friend. "Do you just wait until you think you know enough to operate? Or do you go into surgery worried that you might mess something up? What keeps you out of your own head?" 

Andre looked up at him at that. "You do your best at everything you do, whether you know all the facts or not," He turned to look out the window as he said that, but his expression seemed like he was looking for something very far off, wondering. "All that matters is that you can look yourself in the eye every day." 

Nicky slowly moved his eyes up his body in the mirror. He was afraid to look at his face. He stared at minute places on his arms, his neck. He didn't want to see regret in his own eyes, or worse, hate. 

Finally he forced himself to look. His face was the same as it always was. His curls framed his features and he still had color in his cheeks. He locked eyes with himself, and there, he didn't see regret. 

His eyes were wide, with a glint in them, a spark of something he hadn't seen before. He smiled at himself. He felt okay. He felt better than okay. 

He felt great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this is kind of short! I'll have more soon, I just really like emotional development and I thought this part deserved its own chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this work and kudoed and commented, you guys really sweet!


	3. Chapter 3

Nicky was surprised that Holtby could move a grown man on pain killers as fast as he did- especially with how much alcohol he had consumed- but he and Alex were gone in about half an hour. He waited maybe ten more minutes after he heard the engine start to go back into the living room. 

He appreciated Holtby's attempt to clean up; he had folded the blood covered tarp nicely and topped it with a sticky note with the word "Burn" on it, as well as put the used gauze and needles in a plastic bag on which he drew what Nicky assumed was an attempt at the radioactive symbol. As he suspected, 3 of his bottles of his liquor were gone. He rolled his eyes. 

He went about disposing of the supplies for a while and looked around his little home meticulously to see if anything else was missing. From the way the guys dressed and what they drove it didn't seem like they needed to steal anything of his, but he didn't fault himself as being too careful. They were criminals after all. 

He didn't find anything stolen- his keys were still on the hooks, his TV still plugged in- but he did find something out of place. 

He noticed another sticky note on the table, the same bright color as the one on the tarp. He went over to read it, hoping that it wasn't anything else he had to set on fire. 

"Payment, Love Alex Ovechkin" the note said. It was stuck to a beautiful silver watch, the face catching the setting sun and glinting audaciously into Nicky's eyes. He squinted, both as a reflex and because he was utterly confused. The name "Patek Phillipe" flashed in gold across it and suddenly he felt like he had hot coals in his palm. 

One of the most expensive watch brands in the world and there it was just sitting here on his kitchen table on top of his Papa John's Pizza coupons. A knot formed in his throat. How could he leave something like this here? 

A part of him nagged that he should keep it, a reward for a job well done. He would have to find a microfiber cloth to clean it with, considering it had some sort of smudges on the band. Wait, what do you use to clean expensive watches? He thought. He had neglected to buy household cleaning supplies last time he went shopping, but he knew he had Lysol wipes in the bathroom cabinet. 

He shook his head to snap himself out of it. What was he thinking? It wasn't like he was keeping this. It was probably worth more than his entire house. He had to get it back to Alex. This was payment that Nicky couldn't accept. 

He quickly found a bag to put it in and put it in his pocket. The heat of the watch- or maybe his guilt- was searing through to his thigh. 

Nicky only realized the problem when he had already walked with purpose out the door and got in his car. 

He had no idea how to find an organized crime boss. 

So he did the first thing he could think to do; he called Andre. 

Andre answered the phone with a genial shout, as if he was expecting his call. "Nicke! How are you, how's life? How's everything? How's-" Nicky had to stop him before he could go any further. Andre could be extremely enthusiastic when it came to his friends, so conversations were usually intensive and lasted hours. He found himself practically yelling into the phone for his friend to hear him. 

"Andre, I'm good, but I need your help," Actually, he didn't really need Andre's help, he just didn't know who's help he needed. Who do you contact when you're trying to find the most infamous man in Washington D.C? 

"Wow, Nicklas Backstrom needs my help," he could hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice. He should've known calling him was a bad idea. 

"Yes, that's just what I said," he deadpanned. "This is serious, by a strange series of events I came into the possession of something that belongs to someone very important and-" 

"Well, if they care about it, won't they come looking for it?" Andre interrupted him this time. 

"Not if he gave it to me." 

"Oh. Well why are you calling me if he gave it to you? You should call him and thank him for it." 

"That's the thing, I don't know how to get in contact with him. And I don't want to thank him, I want to give it back to him. I don't need- I don't want- I don't want it." He tried to rewire his mouth to say what he was thinking. He couldn't figure out the best way to phrase "This is a very insane and over the top gesture and I would like to never see it again and forget that I ever met him." 

"Well what did he give you?"

A headache. "A watch." 

"What's the big deal about a watch?" 

"Maybe the fact that it's made of some kind of precious metal and it's hand wound and it's got that French name, Philippe or whatever?" 

"Patek Philippe? That's impossible, nobody just gives those away. It's probably a fake." 

"I don't know..." Honestly, he hadn't thought of the notion until now. It was possible that Alex had given him a fake. But the more he thought about it, the more he thought it would be a strange thing to do, to give a cheap watch to someone as payment when they didn't ask for payment at all. "I don't think he would do that in this case." 

"Wait a second, how exactly did you get this watch anyway?" 

So Nicky told him. The walk home, the fall, the fancy car, the stitches. He felt like he was organizing the event in his head for the first time as his words spilled out of his mouth. All he had done the past few hours was act on instinct and deal with his emotions, he hadn't actually rationalized the encounter in his brain yet. He felt like he'd been robbed and asked later to identify the person who did it. He probably couldn't describe Alex or Holtby if he had to, let alone pick them out of a lineup. They could walk into his practice tomorrow and he probably wouldn't bat an eyelash. 

He found himself trailing off in the middle of his sentence at the thought. He hadn't thought to be scared of the repercussions of his actions. Not from people wanting information about Alex, but Alex himself. This was a killer, an evil man, and Nicky was acting like he was some guy who dropped his wallet on the street. 

"Burky, what if he comes back and tries to... I don't know, keep me quiet?" he choked into the phone. He noticed he was shaking as he held the phone up to his ear. He didn't want to look at his reflection in the rearview mirror, afraid that he would look like the terrified ensnared rabbit he felt he was. He tried to sneak up on himself, peek at it through the corner of his eye really quick, like ripping off a bandage. His eyes weren't scared, his teeth weren't chattering like they felt they were going to. That glint was still there. And Nicky looked determined, almost, looking into his wild eyes. 

"That's not going to happen. Why would he do something nice for you if he was just going to kill you? He's a mob boss, not the Godfather." Andre's voice cut through his inner monologue. Nicky blinked at himself, considering. 

"Yeah, I guess. I'm not even that scared of him, I just want to give him the watch back. It seems like something too nice to give to a stranger." 

"A stranger? Your fingers were inside him!" 

"I gave him stitches, Burky, I didn't fingerbang him. It's first aid, not surgery."

"I don't know about you, but I don't fingerbang my patients." 

"I don't like this conversation." 

"Luckily, I have an idea," Nicky was glad Andre was changing the topic. He didn't want to think of someone who was that dangerous- and that vulnerable, groaning as he laid bleeding on a tarp, in such an explicit way. "If it really is that much of an expensive piece, he probably bought it from a dealer, or a jeweler that supplies that kind of thing all the time. Maybe you could ask around, see if they have an order log or something?" 

Nicky snapped his fingers like he just solved an elusive mystery. "Oh my god, yes," he said, "Burky, you're a genius." 

"Can I get that in writing? What happened to Mr. 'You're one of the dumbest people I've ever met?'" 

"He'll be back when he doesn't have a timepiece worth thousands of dollars in his possession." 

"Who knew you were so noble, Nicke." 

"Shut up." He hung up on his friend after that, knowing that he probably flipped the phone off or something else childish when he heard the line beep off. 

 

Nicky only knew of three jewelers in the area, and only one of them knew at least something about watches. He decided to start there. 

He walked in and was greeted by a somewhat stout man. He had gray hair and a matching goatee, with glasses that made him look even older than he probably was. 

"Can I help you?" He asked. Nicky tried not to notice the way he looked him up and down, as if sizing him as adequate enough to be in his establishment. 

"Hi, I'm wondering if you sell Patek Philippe watches here?" Nicky tried to whisper, not wanting to attract the attention of the other patrons. 

"We only order such designers through special custom orders. It's too much of a liability to keep in the store. Diamonds are one thing, but if one of those comes up missing?" The man looked to the ceiling for emphasis, "Nightmare." 

"I understand. In that case, has anyone ordered that brand recently?" 

The man- his nametag said Barry- squinted at Nicky. He shifted under his accusatory eyes. "Can I ask why you would need to know?" 

Nicky looked down at the floor and sighed. "I found a watch by strange circumstances and I have no idea how to get into contact with the owner. I noticed the designer and I figured he must've bought it in town or something, I'm trying to get it back to him." 

Barry rubbed his goatee. "May I see the watch?" 

Nicky brought the watch out of his pocket and showed it to the jeweler. When he saw it, he went pale. 

Barry laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. He leaned in very close to speak to him. 

"Perhaps we should talk in private."


	4. Chapter 4

He was ushered into the back office of the jewelry store. It matched the front- Nicky always assumed offices in business were like his own, a FEMA declared disaster area. Barry gestured to one of the leather chairs positioned in front of the large official looking desk. Nicky tried to make himself as comfortable as he could as the other man sat at his desk. 

Barry cleared his throat. "Now, tell me why you're here." Nicky saw him reach under the desk and reveal a pistol, setting it on the table casually as if it was a piece of personalized stationary. Something about his demeanor, even without the gun, said "For your sake, this better be good." 

Nicky swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'm here because this man-" 

Barry held up his hand. "Be frank, son. I want names." 

"I can't..." Nicky looked down at his hands. He didn't know who this guy was in relation to Alex. Holtby had told him not to tell anybody about the events of a few hours ago. He felt so stupid suddenly, rushing into something like this when he or his former patient could be in danger. "I don't think I'm allowed to tell you that." 

"A good answer when running with these types," Barry nodded. Nicky watched as his hand drifted closer to the gun, fingers inching along as if he was still unsure of the appropriate way to approach this situation. 

"What types are those?" The question hung in the air for a moment, neither of them daring to wrestle with it. The look Barry gave him was one full of smarm, like he was waiting to watch him step on a landmine he had buried. Nicky tried to look totally innocent, because well, he was. 

He reached under his desk again, and Nicky braced himself. He wondered what he could pull out that was worse than a pistol. A Tommy Gun maybe. He wondered how he fit it under there.

The jeweler pulled out a business card and held it up for Nicky to see. After just a glance, Barry started to turn it over in his hands, then held it up to the light, as if trying to check its authenticity. "Those guys, I do some business for them sometimes. I get them their fancy watches, I sell their stolen loot, and they keep thieves and other trash out of my store. Not bad money they give me either." He said. After he was satisfied with his analysis of it, he handed the card to Nicky. There was an odd symbol printed on it, something simplistically resembling an eagle in juts of red, white, and blue. A number was hand written under it. Nicky noted the DC area code. He looked up to find Barry watching him intensely. 

"I think we both know whose watch this is. Now why don't you just tell me why you have it and what you want for it." 

Nicky looked at the card again and sighed. If this was all the lead he could get, he might as well take it. "Alex Ovechkin was stabbed and pushed off a balcony this morning. I witnessed it and brought him back to my house to close the wound, and he left this on my table as some kind of payment." 

"Okay, why are you trying to give it back to him?" 

"Because," Nicky ran his hands down his face in frustration. He was tired of explaining something that seemed so obvious. "Because it's not something he should be giving to strangers. I can't accept payment for doing what I'm supposed to do." 

"Not many people would think they are _supposed_ to save Alex Ovechkin's life. I bet any other person got one look at his giant Russian face and they would've turned and ran in the other direction. Or called the cops." 

"Well, if someone needs help, they need help. It's not my job to judge anyone, just to do my job." 

"There's something honorable about that, Mr..." 

"Backstrom. And it's not honorable, it's just being a good human being." 

"Right. Well, I can't say that he would accept you returning such a gift, but I can try to deliver it to him myself tomorrow. And don't worry, it won't leave my sight." Barry stood up, extending a hand he expected Nicky to shake. 

Nicky took it, standing up as well. "Thank you sir. And when you do see Alex, can you tell him something for me?" 

"Of course." 

"Tell him..." Nicky spared a moment to think the last few hours. The adrenaline in his veins, the wild look in his eyes, the feeling of holding a life in his hands. The fact that all of that could very well be the reason he's killed. He felt reality in his stomach, a creeping feeling that he had pushed away because of the excitement of the day. He held the watch out for Barry to take, holding it like it was toxic.

"Tell him to take it and leave me alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for so much for all your nice comments and kudos. I'm so glad you like this fic. 
> 
> Also: my friend Kylie and I created a Spotify playlist for this series, if you're interested you can listen to it here: [Link](https://open.spotify.com/user/kileykao/playlist/3MIPAsA1kLp1fYkjBe6Bsx)


	5. Chapter 5

Nicky hated the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about it. 

It had been a week since Alex literally fell into his life, and he couldn't stop thinking about the subsequent events. 

"I don't blame you," Andre had said when he told him, "Your life is so boring, any sort of deviation from the norm would of course rattle you a bit." Andre tended to talk clinically on lunch breaks- a time between his morning surgeries and his afternoon ones when he couldn't afford to stop thinking like a high functioning surgeon. Nicky despised it. 

"But it wasn't different from any other patients I see. I used to work the ER overnight, 5 nights a week. I was on call during the rest. I've seen stabbings and falls before." 

"Yes, mobsters typically frequent the Kettler Metro Hospital." Surgeon Andre was a sarcastic dick. 

"You know what I mean." Nicky rolled his eyes. He took a bite of his sandwich- turkey with cheese on plain white bread- and looked out the window. Nicky always loved his office- his little place in the world that was just his. His superiors told him to get whatever furniture he liked, so he outfitted it with a nice executive desk and comfortable chair. He even set up a little sitting area in front of his picture windows, where he had quite a nice view of inpatient visitor parking. Nicky thought they let him splurge on his office to make up for his mediocre salary. It wasn't like he minded. With Andre over at his house more often than not and his nagging feeling that every Washington DC criminal knew where he lived, he was glad to have his rolling chair with lumbar support, a door he could lock, and hospital security walking down the hall every 10 minutes. 

He chided himself for thinking about it again. He was so sick of it. He felt like he was paranoid all the time. He jumped at every loud noise and didn't want to walk to his car by himself. He sighed. "I'm so tired all the time, Burky." 

"Still not sleeping good, huh?" 

Nicky shook his head. He felt unsafe in his own home. Holtby had shaken him more than he thought; he learned that on the first night, staring at the ceiling at 4 a.m. with his words reverberating in his ears. 

"Well you're always welcome to the guest bedroom at my place. I doubt any mobsters are trying to kill me." 

"Can't say the same about your exes." Nicky smarmed. Andre glared at him as he sipped his water bottle. 

"You know? I might give those gangsters a call. You might be nicer with a hole in your head." 

Nicky stiffened instinctively. Andre noticed. 

"You know I'm joking!" He put his hands up in front of him in innocence. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't bring up that stuff. But honestly? You've been scaring me the past few days. I've never seen you this far in your own head. You've never been the kind of person to back down in the face of any sort of 'What if.' But that stuff you told me over the phone that day... and the fact that you're genuinely scared of something... that's a part of you I've never seen before. I don't like seeing you like this, Nicke." 

Nicky looked at the floor. His anxiety mixed with frustration and annoyance behind his temples, throbbing a headache out of his forehead. A reward for his stress. "If I could change it, I would. But honestly? I've tried everything short of moving the hell back to Sweden and living under a different name with sheep or some shit." 

Andre nodded. "Well you can't do that. I wouldn't have an emergency contact within 100 miles if you left." 

"Yes, that's what I'm worried about in this situation. Your safety." 

Andre sat back in his chair. "Well the way you're talking you don't care about your own." 

Nicky snapped his head up. "Alright, what the hell does that mean?" 

"The great Nicklas Backstrom is going to run back to Sweden because some big bearded guy with a gun threatened him? Bullshit. You're the guy who just told me that you were an ER doctor. You're the guy who drank six five hour energies like tequila shots so he could stay up and study for his MCATs. You're the guy who responded to a Reddit thread I wrote asking if any Swede in DC had a place to stay, knowing I could very well be a serial killer or at the very least have a weird Swedish man fetish. You're the-" 

"Oh my god, stop talking." Nicky could really do without the inspirational speech highlighting his achievements in dumbassery. He got up from his chair, rubbing his temples. 

"But you get what I'm saying, right? Nicklas Backstrom doesn't run from a challenge, or even the thought of one. You're not scared of anything, you laugh at danger. If you let danger affect you in any way, you wouldn't have even stopped to help the guy in the first place. Hell, doing something crazy like that, you may even like it." 

Something about the thought of that made Nicky snap. He grabbed his friend by the collar and pulled him close to him. He felt anger more than anything pounding in his brain, making his skin hot and making him shake from his spine. 

"Don't," Nicky seethed his words through his clenched teeth, "Don't you ever say that I _like_ shit like that."

Andre's eyes were wide with fear. Nicky couldn't tell if his friend was shaking himself or shaking with his own tremor of anger. He nodded slowly. Nicky let go, his entire body still clenched in what Andre assumed was defense. 

Nicky went back to rubbing his temples. A knock at the door cut through the awkwardly silent office. 

"Must be my assistant," Andre mumbled, going over to open it. 

"Package for Dr. Backstrom," the man at the door said when Andre acknowledged him. 

Nicky's blood ran cold. That voice had haunted him every night for the last week. Before he knew what he was doing, he had crossed the room, pulled the gun from where he had concealed it on his ankle and pointed it at Holtby's nose, shoving Andre behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long. I just recently started a new job so I haven't had much time at home, but I really want to prioritize this work. Thank you guys for all the nice things you put on my fic, the kudos and the comments and even just reading it!


	6. Chapter 6

Nicky didn't really have a plan besides pulling a gun on potential intruders. What was he going to do, actually shoot it? That could hurt somebody.

"Whoa, Nicke!" Andre said from behind him, "What the hell?" 

"This is the guy, Andre," Nicky pointed with the barrel for emphasis, "He was with Alex that day!" 

He heard Andre take in a breath behind him. Holtby, however, looked completely unfazed by the deadly weapon that was practically scratching his nose. 

"I have a name, you know." He said, genuinely sounding annoyed. "But I guess we were never properly introduced." Holtby extended his hand. Between his gloved fingers was a business card. Nicky took note of the Eagle like symbol, the same he had seen in the jewelry store. "Braden Holtby. VP of Operations for the Ovechkin group." 

Nicky rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that sounds real. And I'm the CEO of Eat My Ass Incorporated."

"Wow, nothing gets by you," Holtby deadpanned. "It's almost like you've seen me driving a getaway vehicle for a crime boss or something." 

"Shut up. What the hell do you want?" Nicky's arm stiffened defensively. 

"I mean, for a start, getting that out of my face would be nice," Holtby swatted at the gun slightly, like it was a fly buzzing in his ear. "I'm not going to hurt you, man, I'm just here to deliver something." 

"Why does that make me even more nervous?" Nicky tightened his grip on the pistol. 

Holtby rolled his eyes and sighed. Before Nicky could even react or realize what was happening, Holtby had overpowered him and ripped the gun from his hand, his entire arm going numb from the force of a quick blow. Nicky knew he looked properly dumbstruck from where he had been shoved to the floor. Holtby looked the gun over and seemed to laugh to himself. 

"The safety isn't even off, idiot." He dropped the gun in the trash bin by Nicky's desk as he walked further into the room. "How did you even become a doctor with that much sense?" 

Andre helped Nicky up as Holtby swiveled his chair around and sat in it like his nameplate was on the door. 

"I don't recall us being at a level of familiarity that would allow you to joke with me," Nicky said, "Considering last time I saw you, you did threaten me." 

"Yeah, but I threaten everyone," Holtby inspected the objects on his desk, "it's a direct result of looking like a devilishly handsome James Bond villain." 

"Nicky, did he talk this much when you sewed his friend up or is this just some kind of weird mafia torture tactic?" Andre said. His arms were crossed and he was in his best intimidating stance. Well, as good as he could make when he weighed approximately 4 pounds. 

Holtby gestured to him with one of Nicky's pens. "You know, if it was anybody other than a One Direction reject saying that, I might be inclined to be offended." Andre scoffed. 

"Oh my God, can you please just give me whatever you're trying to deliver and leave? I have patients to see." 

"And here I thought we were just hitting it off." Holtby feigned being shocked, putting his hand to his chest and standing up. "But yes, I can. I hate hospitals. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to. Something about the smell of powerful disinfectant makes me feel like everything here could very much kill me in a very gross way." 

"How is a hospital grosser than having your boss get stitched up on a tarp in my living room?" 

Holtby shrugged. "I don't know. Felt more personal when you did it." He cracked a smile as he made his way over to Nicky. He pulled a sealed envelope out of the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to him. 

"What's this?" 

"An envelope, idiot. Do people pay money to see you?" 

Nicky shot him a glare as he turned the envelope over in his hands. It was held closed by wax embossed with the same eagle symbol. He hesitated to open it. The blood-like color of the seal held him rapt. 

"Jesus dude, you're killing me. It's not anthrax, for what it's worth." Holtby yanked the letter out of his hands and brutishly ripped the side of the envelope. He pulled the contents out and handed them to Nicky with a labored sigh. "Do I need to read it for you too? Afraid you'll cut yourself on the stationary?" 

Nicky ignored him as he poured over the letter. 

_Dr. Backstrom,_ it began, in calligraphy he couldn't decide if sloppy or stylistic choice, _I hope this letter finds you well. I expect Holtby was kind in his delivery._

_My name is Alexander Ovechkin. I want to sincerely thank you for helping me in my time of need. Please do me the kindness of joining me for dinner tomorrow at 8 p.m, as a show of the immense gratitude I feel towards you. Holtby will pick you up at your house promptly at 7:30._

_Regards,_

A signature was looped at the bottom. 

Nicky looked up. His emotions must have shown on his face, even though he didn't really know what he felt yet. Andre's eyes were softened with worry and Holtby held a smarm that he assumed was his resting expression at this point. 

"You can't be serious." Nicky said. 

"He was very clear about his instructions," Holtby shrugged. "When Trotz gave him the watch back he was very confused. Then this morning he calls me into his office and is all excited about his new idea. He wanted to treat you to dinner at his place." 

Nicky ran his hand down his face. "When the jeweler gave him the watch back, did he happen to give him a message from me?" 

"Oh yeah. He told him that you wanted to be left alone. I think that hurt Ovi's feelings, hearing that from someone who saved him like you did." 

"I don't care if I did hurt his feelings!" Nicky spat. "All I did was what I'm supposed to do. I didn't save his life, I didn't give him a kidney, I gave him stitches and Anaprox and you guys raided my liquor cabinet. He's a bad person. He steals and he kills people, and I don't want anything to do with him. You can take this letter and fuck off, because I'm not about to see someone like him ever again." Nicky moved past Holtby and Andre in a huff, slamming his shoulder against the gangster's to punctuate his resolve. He wanted nothing more than to go check on people with actual problems- his trauma patient in 304, the hemophiliac in 602- not mafia thugs who think they can threaten him with force one minute and bribe him with gaudy jewelry the next then wonder why he wanted no business with them. 

Holtby was fast, and Nicky had forgotten in his anger. He found himself shoved against his extravagant windows. His breath left him all at once and he felt Holtby's hand clamp down on his shoulder, pinning him. 

"Nicke!" Andre yelled. He faintly heard a gun cock and a gasp. Holtby had pulled a revolver and pointed it at Andre with one hand, and manhandled Nicky with the other. 

"Don't move, Bambi," Holtby said, his voice lower and leagues more menacing than seconds before. "Your friend here doesn't seem to know his place." 

Holtby pivoted his head slowly back to Nicky and he felt a chill run down his spine. "I thought you were alright, saving my boss' ass and all that, but apparently you've got a mouth on you. I don't think I care for it. You talk like you got a clue about who you're dealing with when you didn't even _recognize_ him a week ago. Allow me to educate you, Backstrom." Holtby leaned in close, his eyes lidded into slits, like a snake about to ensnare its dinner. "People started hearing about this Ovechkin guy almost 14 years ago now. Real charismatic, smart, quirky kind of criminal. Usually even the good gangsters burn bright and flicker fast, but this guy..." Holtby whistled. The noise felt like needles in Nicky's ears. "He climbed quick and when he had an opportunity at power, he grabbed it. And I've been following him all that time. You may think, 'How the hell does this guy stay at the top for so long? How has nobody picked him off yet?' Well, there's one thing that my guy does that nobody else does, because nobody else has the balls to or the resources," Holtby leaned ever closer, so his beard rubbed against Nicky's cheek and his breath was heavy in his ear. He resisted the urge to flinch. 

"Alex Ovechkin always gets even."


	7. Chapter 7

If Nicky wasn't already terrified, Holtby's actions in his office definitely shoved him over the edge of it. 

He had left shortly after what Andre described as "his assault on Nicky" with a smile as if nothing had just happened. He called "I'll pick you up at seven!" over his shoulder as he swaggered down the hospital hallway. Nicky only remembered sinking down to the floor, slumping against the window of his office. The rest of the day went by in a blur. 

Andre invited himself over to the stay the night. "For protection," he said, but his track record on that front left Nicky less than assured. He didn't sleep that night- every time he closed his eyes, he saw Holtby's smarm. He felt ghost like touches on his shoulders, sending the needles back down his spine. He tried to resist the urge to brush it off, to put his hand to the spot and confirm that it was truly his imagination. He found himself doing it subconsciously, and he groaned when he found himself searching his skin. 

Andre stormed into his bedroom at 3 a.m, turning the lights on and depositing himself next to Nicky on his king size mattress. 

"I can hear your grunting from down the hall, it's getting annoying. What is wrong?" he said. 

Nicky rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the light. "Gee, I don't know. Could it be the fact that I could be taking a chauffeured Cadillac to my own execution in less than 24 hours?" 

"It is way too early for your sarcasm, Backstrom," Andre reprimanded, "What if, and I'm just taking a wild guess here, he _genuinely_ just wants to have dinner with you?"

Nicky sighed, frustrated. He wasn't sure if it was with Andre or his situation. "That's not better."

"Better than death? Jeez, how much do you hate this guy?" 

"I don't-" Nicky heard his voice raising, "I don't hate him. I just don't want to have anything to do with a guy like that."

"You say that, but what kind of guy is he, exactly? You only met him for like three hours and most of the time he was bleeding out." 

"When someone threatens you, and then bribes you to make sure it takes? That tells me all I need to know about him."

Andre nodded. They sat in silence for a while, and Nicky knew that he was slowly working up the courage to turn on his TV to remove himself from a situation that he very much did not want to be a part of. A surprise to him, Andre was the one to speak first. 

"So are we gonna talk about it?" He said it quietly, barely heard over the air conditioner. 

Nicky turned to look his friend in the eye. "I thought we were talking about it." 

"Not _that_ it, the other it." 

"I don't follow." 

"Are we going to talk about the fact that you yanked me out of my chair and got all crazy eyed when we were in your office?" 

Nicky suddenly didn't want to look at Andre anymore. He felt ashamed, but he couldn't figure out of what. "I don't know... I don't know what that was, to be honest." He felt an inch tall as he said it and almost hoped he wouldn't be heard. 

"That really scared me, Nicky. You had this... this look on your face. Like you were going to hurt me, or that you wouldn't think twice about doing it. The kind you see in..." Andre lowered his voice, as if talking to a sleeping infant. "In mugshots, you know?" 

Nicky shook his head frantically. He hated the fact that he knew what he was talking about, but despised that someone other than him had noticed it. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Burky. I have never had this feeling before. I've lived 30 years on this planet and this rush- I guess that's the word- that I get when I think about what happened? I've never had anything like it. It's paralyzing to experience new things when you think you've seen it all." 

Nicky felt tears drip down his face and onto his hands folded in his lap. He looked at the reflected light in the drops as they continued to run down his skin and be absorbed by the duvet. "I don't know why this is different. I've racked my brain for a reason for acting like this, but..." he sniffled, "I can't figure it out. For once in my life, Andre, I can't do something." 

Andre put his arm around Nicky, and Nicky let himself be moved to put his head on his friend's shoulder. "Don't be scared of new things, Nicky. You're too young to be set in your ways just yet." 

He just sniffled in response. 

"I can't imagine what it's like to go through what you're going through, but remind yourself that you have done nothing wrong. You did a good thing, and your instincts are good. This is just unfamiliar to you, but you'll manage. You didn't show up on your first shift knowing everything about being a doctor, did you?" Andre didn't wait for an answer. "No, but now you're great at it. You're so assured of yourself that you can honestly say that you help people. Nobody can take that away from you. You, Nicklas Backstrom, are a good person. Don't forget it." 

"I guess." Nicky mumbled. 

"Besides," Andre grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, "It's just one dinner, what could possibly happen?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry that this took so long! I honestly have no excuse, but I did just start back to college and getting used to everything is a little weird. Hopefully I will be more consistent. Thanks for all the comments and kudos and everything. You guys are the best.


	8. Chapter 8

Holtby rang Nicky's doorbell at seven on the dot. 

"You're wearing that?" was the first thing he said when Nicky saw him. 

"What's wrong with it?" Nicky looked down at himself, hoping he actually put on the sweater he planned to wear and not some atrocity like Holtby seemed to accuse. 

He shrugged. "I guess it's fine," he turned to walk down the steps to the car and motioned for Nicky to follow. Muttering, "I swear, I'm the only person with style in this city," or something of the sort. 

He didn't open the door for Nicky. Not that he expected him to, really. He did pause for a second, giving him a window if he were going to. He seemed to catch it, and snorted; a sound that by itself was mocking him without Holtby having to open his mouth. 

"You don't pay me, I don't open doors for you," He said anyway. Nicky sat in the passenger seat awkwardly. 

They didn't say anything on the ride over to what Nicky assumed was some melodramatic castle on a cliff. He was surprised when the gates opened to reveal a somewhat modest mansion, complete with shrubs lining the driveway and four armed guards posted at the doors. Holtby nodded to them as they went in. 

"You don't need to, like, check me for weapons or something?" he asked when the doors between him and the guns were closed. 

"I saw you hold a gun yesterday, remember? You're harmless. I feel like I should childproof the house or something, actually." They stopped at a pair of sliding doors and Holtby grabbed both the handles. 

Nicky rolled his eyes. "Bit dramatic," he mumbled. 

Holtby winked at him. "Boss's orders. And if you think _I'm_ dramatic," he pushed the doors open with a flourish. 

The dining room was set beautifully. A chandelier of crystal teardrops flowed over a long table stuffed with food. Two chairs sat at either end; a figure sat furthest from them, shrouded in the shadows made by the honey colored light. 

"I brought him," was all Holtby said before leaving, closing the doors back. Nicky hated that he almost wanted to ask him to stay. 

"I'm so glad you here," The figure said, getting up from the chair. Nicky tensed when he moved closer into his view. 

He was surprised that he didn't notice his features when he walked in, or when he met him, for that matter. Everything about him seemed to shine, giving the crystal a run for its money. His eyes were a stoic gray, like a storm that would destroy him but he'd like to watch if it did. His hair was definitely neater than when it had been matted on the tarp in his living room, combed to a fluffiness that he was curious enough to want to touch. His complexion had come back, the bluish tint behind his cheeks now full and almost pink. 

"You look healthy," Nicky said before he could stop himself. He choked on the weight of his words, wanting to shove them back in his mouth and swallow them and never talk to anyone ever again. 

"Oh yes! You did good job," Ovechkin gave a thumbs up and a smile. Nicky really wished he hadn't, because where he fell short with teeth in the smile competition, he made up for in it being absolutely endearing. He wanted to see it a thousand more times before he left.

Wait. What the hell was he thinking?


	9. Chapter 9

Nicklas Backstrom definitely didn't think Alex Ovechkin was cute. No matter how many times he smiled. 

He was supposed to about as cute as a chainsaw. Or maybe a woodchipper. He definitely was not supposed to have great hair and beautiful eyes. 

Nicky had to get a hold of himself. He focused on a spot on the wall just behind Ovechkin. He was not going to look at him if he could help it. This guy was a criminal; it didn't matter if he was cute or not. 

"How rude of me," Ovechkin said, extending his hand. "We never introduced. I'm Alex Ovechkin. Friends call me Ovi." 

Nicky shook his hand reluctantly. "I don't think I classify as your friend." 

"Course you do," Ovi said, flashing his smile again, "You saved my life. You definitely my friend. Probably blood brothers or something." 

"I wouldn't go that far," Nicky said. He started to inch closer to the table, wanting to get the damn thing over with. 

"Oh, let me help," Ovi moved to pull out Nicky's chair, but he stopped him with a hand in his face. 

"No, thank you. I've got it." He was going to keep him as far away from him as possible if he could help it. 

Ovi sat across from him at the head of the table. Nicky hoped his view of him was as blocked by the centerpiece as his was. 

"Oof, this is no good." Ovi mumbled. "I can't see you!" Nicky breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Well at least we get to admire this lovely table setting," Nicky tried. He felt as if his sarcasm was checked at the door. 

"I guess," Ovi clattered his dishes standing up. "I wanted to talk to you face to face, though." 

Nicky felt like his leg was going to shake right off his body as he came and sat next to him. He tried to breathe normally. He grabbed a spoon of something from a serving bowl and began filling his plate, hoping that eating would fill the evening more than conversation. 

Ovi had other plans. "So how is it, working in a hospital?" He asked when Nicky's mouth was full. 

He struggled to swallow, almost wanting to choke more than answer the question. He glanced at Ovi, who was smiling at him, his eyes crinkling at the edges, like he was watching a bunny eat. 

Apparently Ovi could fill the time he took to chew by answering for him. "Must be rewarding. Saving lives every day. Rush probably never gets old. What's your favorite part? Being able to do something nobody else can do? Seeing people smile again? Having-"

"The money," Nicky answered finally. 

"Oh yeah? I bet it's good. Your house nice, if I remember right."

"You probably don't, I wouldn't when I've lost that much blood." 

Ovi barked out a laugh, making Nicky jump. "Yeah, I guess you right." 

"It's nothing compared to this place anyway." 

He slapped Nicky's arm playfully. "Don't say that! You have resources like mine, you use them." He smiled at Nicky, but seeing his expression of disgust and accusation, he quickly looked away. "I couldn't start to compare our lives, you know? You're a big hero, I'm just..." He looked at the ceiling, as if he was thinking, "Rich, I guess." 

Nicky wanted so badly to keep from hurling vitriol at him. He knew by now that he wasn't planning to kill him, but verbally assaulting him would definitely help him decide. Nevertheless, as if his brain was on autopilot, he opened his big dumb mouth. 

"I'm not a hero, I just prescribe medication. And you certainly won't become one if you're robbing banks and killing people." 

Ovi blinked at him, as if he didn't understand what he just said. If he was honest, Nicky didn't either. 

"Nicklas-" 

"Dr. Backstrom, please. I'd prefer it if we didn't get familiar." 

"Dr. Backstrom, sorry. You think I kill people and rob banks. Do you think I am bad person?" 

His question made Nicky's mind jump the track. "Uh..." He couldn't come up with an answer. Sure he had said it multiple times behind his back in the last week, but here, looking into his eyes that glinted in the crystallized light, he couldn't bring himself to tell him so. 

"You saved my life, Dr. Backstrom. Do you save the lives of everyone? Or just the good people?" 

"E-everyone," Nicky whispered. "I couldn't live with myself if I knew I didn't do all I could to help someone." 

"I see," Ovi nodded his head. "So if a serial killer walked into your hospital, you'd help him too?" 

"I..." Nicky didn't want to answer. He didn't want to see where this was going. 

"I wouldn't, if it was me. The life of one isn't worth risking lives of many, right?" Ovi scooted closer as he spoke. "Those people... you can see it in their eyes. Their crazy. The reflection of their sins in the windows to the soul. You never forget that look in the eyes of someone who just loves something too much. In this case, it's killing. For others, it's a hobby or a passion. Or someone. You ever seen that look before, Dr. Backstrom? The glint of obsession?" 

"No," Nicky said quickly. He felt as if he was being pinned down and tortured, but the man had not laid a finger on him. 

"No, of course not. You only see good people. Help good people. That's why you help me, right? Dr. Backstrom?" 

"I... I didn't know who you were. On the sidewalk." 

Ovi nodded again. "Really? I'm kind of hurt. You didn't recognize my good looks? I hear my eyes are best quality. You didn't see crazy in my eyes, Dr. Backstrom? Passion?" 

Nicky slowly lifted his head and bore a stare at Ovi. "Everyone looks the same when the light in their eyes is waning." 

"Wow, sound deep. I'm sure I look handsome though." He laughed and sat back in his chair, causing Nicky to relax a little. "I'm not a bad guy, Dr. Backstrom. I have done bad things, yes, but for greater good of people I love. I hope..." he shifted his spoon back and forth where it was set on the napkin. "I hope you don't think of me as less than. Because of what I do." 

Nicky sighed. "Honestly, Mr. Ovechkin, whether I think of you as good or bad wouldn't affect your life in any way. After I leave here tonight, I'll never see you again. I'll go back to my doctor life and you'll go back to... whatever it is you do all day. And never the twain shall meet." 

He looked down at his plate, trying to find something to put in his mouth so he didn't have to talk anymore. 

"I don't... I don't want that, Dr. Backstrom." Ovi said. Nicky looked up at him. He wasn't meeting his eyes. "You did something I could never repay you for. I will never be able to say thank you enough. Because of that, I can't... I need you in my life. So I can repay you every chance I get." 

"I don't want repayment. I didn't want the watch, and I don't want this either. I don't think you understand the fact that what I do is a job, not heroism. I do what needs to be done. And no matter who you are, even if you are a deranged killer with a giant mansion and guards with guns and a chauffeur, stopping your blood loss was what needed to be done." 

"You know, I almost believe you." Ovi said, smirking. "You do good work at your job, I'm sure. You say you do it for the money. You probably have moral code you abide by. But you talk about helping people, you talk about helping me, and I see that in your eyes." Nicky didn't want to hear this. He wanted to plug his ears and somehow become liquid and just melt through the chair and into the floor. "You love it. You love being a doctor. You're obsessed with it. It's incredible. You go wild with the rush, don't you?" 

"Shut up." Nicky whispered. 

"You liked saving me. You knew who I was and you saved me anyway, and you liked that, didn't you?" 

"No!" he shouted suddenly. He shoved his chair back and stood up. "I am nothing like that! I'm not a monster who saves monsters for the fuck of it." 

"Of course not, Dr. Backstrom. You don't save monsters. You just saved this one." 

Nicky snorted. "I'll be going now. Excuse me." He moved to storm out the door. 

"Wait." Ovi said, a command more than anything. Nicky didn't know why he obeyed. 

Ovi came to stand in front of him. "I apologize for the accusation. You really are an honorable man, Dr. Backstrom. And I'll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you weren't a monster to save me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little carried away with this chapter. I like it a lot though. Thank you so much to everyone who has read this so far.


	10. Chapter 10

Nicky woke up in his own bed the next morning 90% sure it was all a dream. He hoped more than thought it, but when Andre elbowed him in the side while he was making coffee, his hopes were dashed. 

"So how was dinner last night? You got in pretty late..." Nicky could hear the double entendre in his voice. 

"It was fine," he said, trying to make the coffee pour faster to duck out of the conversation, "He was a very nice host." 

"Oh really? What was the house like? Huge?" 

"Secure." Nicky shoved past him with his mug. "Guns, everywhere. It freaked me out." 

"Well he probably has a lot of enemies. You can't fault him for that." 

"That's what's so crazy to me, he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who has enemies. He was almost... normal, I guess." 

"Normal is a far cry from where you were yesterday morning. And yesterday night, for that matter. What happened over there?" Andre pulled up a chair across from him and sipped his own coffee. 

"Nothing really. We just... talked. Well, he talked, I listened." 

"Yeah, those guys don't seem much for conversation." 

Nicky scoffed, almost in agreeance. "It is wasn't like Holtby, though. All threats and being a dickhead. He talked like he was sure of himself, but it was more from the heart than from the hip. He thanked me a dozen times, and then he said..." he looked down at his hands, almost like something there would distract him from finishing what he was saying. He traced his fingers over his palm, thinking. 

"What did he say, Nicke?" 

Nicky still couldn't look up, focused on the lines in his hand, the callouses. "He said he would prove it was good to save him." 

Andre sighed. "What does that mean?" 

"He asked me if I thought he was a bad person and- and I couldn't answer." 

"Well is he?" 

"Knowing what I know now, or yesterday?" 

"Is there a difference?" 

"The person I saved isn't the same person I met last night. He was suave, he was passionate, he wasn't someone you'd find stabbed on the sidewalk. But that person... that guy did those things too, right? Killed people? Robbed people?" 

"I don't know, Nicke. But are you asking because you're afraid he'll kill you? Or because you're genuinely worried for other people?" 

Nicke looked up. An emotion eclipsed his face that Andre couldn't read. "I'm a doctor, Andre. It's my job to worry about other people." 

"Yeah, but you're also Nicklas Backstrom, a guy with a personal life. A guy who doesn't have to save everyone." 

"I'm not!" He hissed, recoiling back like he'd been burned. "I'm not saving everyone. I'm just trying to live with myself after what I've done." 

"You didn't do anything. You went to dinner last night. You came home. And now you're here, in one piece. So why are you still so scared of this guy?" 

"Like you said, I'm not scared of anything." Nicky got up from the table, clearly finished with the conversation.   
_____________________  
Nicky started to research that night. He spent hours bookmarking anything he could find on Alex Ovechkin. 

"There's almost nothing here," he complained when Andre poked his head in the room. "It's like the guy's a ghost." 

"Yeah? Maybe that's a good thing. Stays out of the media." 

Nicky swiveled around in his office chair to face him. "Am I crazy?" 

Andre took a seat behind him on his bed. "Why do you ask?" 

"I don't get why I'm so hung up on this guy." 

"Are you hung up on him or are you hung up on the things he does?"

He put his head in his hands and groaned. "I honestly don't know. Can it be both?" 

Andre sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you like him? Because that would explain it."

Nicky felt like his friend had put his hands around his neck and squeezed. "What?" He sputtered out. 

"Do you have a crush on Alex Ovechkin?" 

"A crush!" Nicky rolled his eyes. "I barely know him." 

"It doesn't take much. And you did have dinner with the guy. Gazing into each others eyes by candlelight... discussing the intricacies of organized crime..." Andre held his arms out as gesture that Nicky didn't fullly understand. 

"How would you know? You said the last date you had was in Sweden." 

Andre shrugged. "You can read about love in books." 

"So it's love now, is it?" 

"Nicke, it's just a question." 

"No, Andre, it's not. The implications of that... I couldn't imagine what liking a mob boss is like." 

"Maybe you don't like the mob boss. Maybe you just like Alex Ovechkin." 

"There isn't much of a difference, is there?" 

"You never know. People can surprise you." 

"You read that in a book too?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! New chapter, trying to develop the characters a little more. Let me know what you think! Thanks for reading and leaving Kudos and everything, you guys are seriously the best.


	11. Chapter 11

Alex Ovechkin's morning started out much like it always did. People stood when he walked in the room, like he was getting a standing ovation for getting out of bed. His close friends slapped him on the back and shot him knowing smirks as he made his way to the front of the table, where the real business waited. 

"Good morning!" Ovi said as he surveyed his meeting room and acknowledged all the faces. About a dozen smiles matched his. It seemed everyone made it today. "Guess word travels fast," he thought aloud, "You must think I have interesting story from last night?" 

No one so much as nodded at the insinuation that they weren't there to discuss the day's shipments and statistics, but Jakub seemed to be grinning a bit more cheekily than most. 

"Baby V? Anything you would like to say?" 

Jakub Vrana looked like a deer caught in headlights, an expression which seemed cemented on his face in a family with burly sailor types as brethren. He shook his head quickly, then very obviously tried to look anywhere but his boss. 

Ovi continued with a smile. "We have a lot to do today, so there's no time to go into my dinner last night. If you need to know anything about it, I'll tell you. Now, let's get started." 

Alex Ovechkin's afternoon didn't go as well as his morning. He had a meeting, but it felt more like an ambush. Holtby paced the floor of Ovi's office, obviously trying not to be blunt. 

"Ovi, we need to talk about the incident." He said nonetheless, and he tried to pretend he didn't notice Ovi tense up. He healed in such little time that he hoped that no one would want to think about the fact that he was injured in the first place. 

"I'm fine now, no worries!" Ovi said, his smile on his face again. 

"You were almost assassinated, dude. There are worries. The entire family is worried." 

"But I'm fine now," he tried again, and Holtby shook his head. 

"We're trying to find out who did it. That starts with you acknowledging it happened at all." 

"I know it happened. I just don't want to dwell on it." 

"Dwell on it?! Ovi, you're one of the most powerful people in Washington D.C. and that includes the president. You were stabbed, pushed out of a window, and left to bleed out on a sidewalk. Are you saying we don't need to find out who did this?" 

"I don't want to think about it! If it's so important to you, sure! Find the bastard! I don't care, just don't involve me." he swiveled his chair around so Holtby couldn't see his face. He didn't want him to see the fear in his eyes, the stress in his facade. He had seen worse things than what happened to him, probably done worse things himself. But he couldn't stop thinking about the weightlessness- the powerlessness- of plummeting to the concrete, over and over again, every time he found himself idle. 

"Are you scared?" Holtby asked, the quiet of the question hitting him in the gut before the words. 

"I was," he replied, matching his volume. "Now, I'm indifferent." 

"I'm sorry." Ever quieter. 

Ovi sighed before he spoke again, wanting to huff and puff and blow all the tension out of the room. "When you almost die... when you really, truly, think you're not going to live anymore... your anger goes away. Revenge seems insignificant. You fade in and out of consciousness, you forget who you are. I wasn't... me, when I was lying there, I was just aware of all the things that Alex Ovechkin could have done differently. And the fact that I'm allowed this chance to live again? I don't want to waste it. I don't ever want to feel that again. Regret, I guess." 

"So... what does this mean for us?" The question seemed intimate, but he knew what he was asking. 

"The family is everything to me. We're still going to do business, we'll just... I don't know, we'll just-" 

Holtby held up his hand, cutting off his floundering. He walked around to look his boss in the eye, and was met with the bloodshot stare of someone who was trying to keep from crying. 

"We'll do whatever we need to, Ovi. You haven't let us down yet." 

And Ovi wanted to believe, with everything that's happened- with how weak he felt- that that was truly the case.


End file.
